


Bloody Hands

by thatsrightdollface



Series: Seven Worlds (Crossovers for the Umbrella Academy Team) [3]
Category: Jessica Jones (TV), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Good Roommate/Brother Diego, I mean relatively happy, I'm gonna tag, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jessica Jones (TV) Spoilers, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Swearing, but only for season one, just in case, not in explicit detail but still, references to the non-consensual relationship Kilgrave forces on Jessica, so many metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsrightdollface/pseuds/thatsrightdollface
Summary: It might have been kinder if the days could stir together into a bruised and awful mush — if Luther Hargreeves could turn off the part of his brain that was still sluggishly counting the hours when he didn’t have control.Jessica Jones crossover.  Takes place exclusively in Jessica Jones Season 1.
Relationships: (in an unwilling-bodyguard/horrible sort of way), (toxic/one-sided/unrequited... you know), Allison Hargreeves/Luther Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Jessica Jones/Zebediah Killgrave, Luther Hargreeves & Zebediah Killgrave
Series: Seven Worlds (Crossovers for the Umbrella Academy Team) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907311
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	Bloody Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Hi -- and thank you so much for reading!!! This is the third installment in my series crossing TUA with other superhero things. My current goal is to have seven one-shots in this series, updating Wednesdays. I'm sorry for anything and everything I might've messed up/gotten wrong. I spell Kilgrave's name with only one "L" here despite the tags, 'cause I'm pretty sure that's how he spells it in the show. 
> 
> I hope you’re staying safe and doing well!!! I don’t wanna spoil things too much, but I’m gonna put a little commentary on this fic in the OTHER notes section.

It might have been kinder if the days could stir together into a bruised and awful mush — if Luther Hargreeves could turn off the part of his brain that was still sluggishly counting the hours when he didn’t have control. But Kilgrave... the man in the spotless purple suit, the man (almost) no one could refuse, like some sort of swaggering sorcerer-prince in a fairytale... hadn’t let him touch a drop of alcohol, had barely let him close his eyes. Luther had to think of the door, and guard the hallways; he had to snap strangers’ wrists and punch them until their necks cracked in such a sour sickening way that he threw up in his mouth. And then he swallowed it, because Kilgrave said not to puke on the nice carpets. 

Luther had been Kilgrave’s personal bodyguard for weeks. He’d lasted longer than almost anyone, Kilgrave laughed. Gold star. Employee of the Month. Kilgrave was trying to get a woman called “Jessica Jones” back... a woman who looked at the world like she knew it was going to spit in her drink. Red weary eyes, red scowling lips. Luther wanted to yell at her to _strike now_ when Kilgrave was watching from the other end of the park, from just out of sight like a love-starved shadow, but he’d been ordered not to speak. He had been good at taking orders, before. When he had a choice. Now, though... 

No thanks. 

Fuck off. 

Kill him. He knows he can’t control you, anymore. _Kill him, please._

Or run, run as far away as you can, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

Now, with his teeth aching clenched and his stomach gone raw, Luther _couldn’t say anything._ Physically, existentially couldn’t _._ Kilgrave had done this and so much worse to Jessica Jones. He described it all, murmuring and hissing, drawling like he thought he was a poet, screaming like he was just _this close_ to ordering Luther to break his own bones. Kilgrave described how he had loved Jones, and used her, and been escaped over again and again, like Luther was his confidant. Like he didn’t realize that he wove between romance and cloying rationalizations and murderous rage in the same breath, a sea monster ducking in and out of dark water.

“You know how I love her, what I do for her,” Kilgrave scoffed. And because he couldn’t help it, Luther did. Of course he did. But that wasn’t _all_ he knew. 

Jones was strong the way Luther was strong, see, and strong in ways he wasn’t. That was a funny way to say it, maybe, but Luther’d had a lot of time to think this through. Jones could bend metal in her bare hands just like he could, but... towards the end of things... she had also said “No” to Kilgrave himself. She had dragged her mind away from him, like fishing a single pearl out of an ocean. That wasn’t possible. That wasn’t done. But Jessica was _gone anyway_ , and Luther’s strength was handy in the meantime but it wasn’t any real replacement. Kilgrave didn’t love him. He wasn’t the _same_. Kilgrave said Luther’s was like a knock-off super-strength, like store brand soda. Jessica had been a Hero, you know. Capital “H,” Hero. Jessica loved Italian food, and kissed Kilgrave on the roof in the dripping sunshine, and looked so sweet in fluttery silk dresses with flowers on them. 

(No — Luther knew Jessica Jones wore leather jackets and the same jeans day after day. He had seen Kilgrave’s room full of terrifying, worshipful photographs, haunting her. She didn’t wear flowery dresses. Obviously she didn’t, at least not anymore.)

“She loves me, Luther,” Kilgrave said, nodding resolutely. Wearing a martyr’s face. “Or she’ll grow to love me. Either way, we’ll have a happy ending.”

Silence. Of course.

“I mean... _you_ know the story. Tell me you believe I’ll have a happy ending.”

“I believe you’ll have a happy ending,” Luther said, and it was the first time he’d spoken all day. His voice didn’t sound like his own, not quite. It would be so good to sleep. To read a book. To forget, to go home, to call his roommate Diego and apologize for missing rent. To explain where he’d gone and offer to pay double for a few months, to make it all up. Diego would be mad at first, yeah, but when Luther said “Please. Just... come get me?” Diego would say, “I’m on my way.” Sure. Of course. They’d order food and watch TV. Diego would say he’d thought about selling Luther’s stuff, but he’d probably be lying. Unless he’d had to. You know. To make rent, without Luther to pick up his half of things.

Luther would never bring Diego here, to a place like this. Maybe it would be better if Diego sold his mattress, his lamp, his video games. Maybe it would be better if Diego forgot him, too, and if that beautiful woman from down the hall, Allison, didn’t take it too seriously that he’d stood her up for a date. She was funny, Allison, and thoughtful, and she tended to reach out and try to pick everyone around her up if she could. Luther had seen her carrying this old guy’s groceries up the stairs, and birdsitting for a grumpy neighbor, and admiring some shy kid’s sidewalk chalk drawings enthusiastically instead of being too mad that she was blocking the apartment building’s front door. Diego had assured Luther Allison was way out of his league, said with a playful shove on the arm. Diego had _also_ said he’d have words for Allison if she treated Luther wrong — they all knew he’d been pining after her for years.

Allison could find another possible boyfriend, if she wanted one, and Diego could find another roommate. Sometimes that thought made Luther feel so impossibly alone. Other times, it was one of the best thoughts he had. You know how it goes. 

Luther’d worked at a moving company before this, hauling people’s stuff all around the city. Carrying tables on his back, and pretending he wouldn’t have been able to lift a huge leather sofa on his own. It had been alright. He was probably fired, by now, though, huh? It was funny, but sometimes Luther remembered that before Kilgrave asked him who he was — (was _he_ the one the newspaper was talking about, the mysterious blond man who had caught a huge steel beam before it smashed some guy in his car, and then ran away chanting “Excuse me, no, excuse me,” over and over, shielding his face with an _Adventures of Spaceboy!_ comic book?) — he’d parked by a meter. His car had probably been towed, on top of everything else. 

Luther had meant to lie to Kilgrave, truth be told. Huge steel beam? _Adventures of Spaceboy_? Yeah, no, don’t know anything about that. His heart had nearly stopped when he felt his mouth falling open, heard himself say, “Yeah. Hi.” And then Kilgrave’d had a job for him; and then Kilgrave’d told him his powers were like skim milk to Jessica Jones’s ice cream; and then, and then, and then. Once, Luther might have told you he had a problem with being kind of a “People Pleaser,” and his roommate Diego might have told you it was because of “Textbook Daddy Issues,” and Allison from down the hall might have told you he was the kind of guy you could get a drink with after a terrible day at work without worrying he’d try anything weird. Once, Luther might have told you it was nice to be needed somewhere, and he was happy to help, in general, and he believed in being polite under most circumstances. Now, he kept daydreaming about smashing Kilgrave’s head into the fancy marble counter, in between hours where Kilgrave remembered to tell him, “You love your job.” 

“You want to help me.” 

“You’re having a good day.”

“You’re... you know, Luther, you’re probably my best friend.”

Kilgrave had done this and so much worse to Jessica Jones, and Luther wasn’t sure how it was going to end, or if there was any way possible for this to have a “happy ending.” Things had been broken, and sure, yeah, Jones would glue whatever she could back together, but she shouldn’t have to. If Kilgrave smashed all the windows, all the vases, all the cutesy little porcelain figurines — a metaphor for lives, or something, just go with it — Jones was going to slice her hands apart trying to gather up all the pieces. She was bleeding all the time. She didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this. Kilgrave was trapped in his own self, an Ouroboros, forever eating his own tail. Okay, now that was mixing metaphors. Luther was... like I said, Luther had a lot of time to think things through, and not a lot of sleep. 

Kilgrave probably had no idea what having an actual “friend” felt like, did he? And how could he, honestly? That’s what Luther was thinking about — wondering what kind of amazing, earnest person Kilgrave would have had to be to grow up with powers like he had, powers over everybody else’s will, and turn out kind. The man shaped the powers, and the powers shaped the man, both in turn. Corrupting one another. It made Luther’s head hurt, made his chest feel tight. Diego always used to tell him he worried too much... bad for his heart. It was probably true. Luther worried about a lot of new things, lately, guarding Kilgrave as he slept, with the watery neon city lights drifting all around. About how long he’d serve in jail, if everything Kilgrave had ever compelled him to do turned up on public record. About how awful it was that he could strain every muscle in his body, aching to raise his fist and bring it down as hard as he could against Kilgrave’s forehead, and his hand wouldn’t so much as twitch. He just... couldn’t.

 _He couldn’t._ But the wanting had changed him, you know? Just some more broken pieces. It wouldn’t be Jones’s job to put _him_ back together, at least. Luther told himself that, anyway, as Kilgrave slept on.

***

Maybe you know the rest of the story: Jessica Jones snapped Kilgrave’s neck by a smoggy, salt-sharp dock, their shoes all soaked in dirty water; Jessica Jones told the man (almost) no one could refuse to smile as he squirmed; it was... in time... as over as it could ever be. The happiest ending Luther could have hoped for. Jones had to put him out of commission to get that far, mind you. He learned about it all later, lying hazy and drugged up in a hospital bed alongside so many others. People compelled to shoot at Jessica Jones and hunt her through the streets, people compelled to fight each other to the death on those docks, tearing out each other’s hair and kicking in brittle knees. Stomping fingers, jabbing eyes. It was... messy. Everybody in the hospital knew the refrain, like the chorus from a hit song: “Kilgrave made me do it.” 

The man in the slick purple suit. 

The British guy, dark hair, eyes that stared through you. 

The spoiled and heartbroken fairytale tyrant who never saw himself clearly, not even up to the end. Who always said, “ _I’ve_ never killed anyone!” in such a scandalized, self-righteous voice. Not with his own hands, no. But that didn’t mean those hands weren’t clotted with metaphorical blood, blood seeped into all the lines of the palm, blood crusted under the carefully manicured fingernails. Kilgrave’s hands should’ve been how he made everybody else’s. Luther’s, too. Right? 

It could be hard to move forward, with hands like that. 

And now Kilgrave was dead, supposedly. But Luther wasn’t, against all odds. He learned how Jessica Jones’s friend Patsy — er, _Trish_ Walker had helped an ambulance find him. He’d ended up smashed through the docks, after all, during a final showdown with Jessica Jones as Kilgrave ran. They were strong in the same way, but Jones had used his own weight against him, had weakened a bit of the boardwalk so that he finally fell and things went mercifully dark. He’d nearly drowned, except that Jones had wasted precious time heaving him out of the water... his ankle was broken. His eye was swollen shut; he’d lost a tooth. It could’ve been so much worse. It _was_ worse, for so many people who had done a hell of a lot less for Kilgrave than Luther had, as his bodyguard, his very best “friend.”

Luther had been so incredibly relieved, when he felt the boardwalk crack underneath his boot and realized what had to happen next. He knew he’d given Jessica Jones a thankful look; he had no idea what he could possibly say to her now. But Jones didn’t come by the hospital. A guy called Malcolm who said he was friends with her did, though, representing that sleuthing business, Alias Investigations. He gave Luther a freshly-printed card with a number on it that he could call if he needed anyone to talk to. If he needed help finding legal counsel, if he wanted to join a group that met once a week and talked about the mess Kilgrave left behind. Luther told Malcolm the group would be better off without him in it — he didn’t deserve to take that card — did Malcolm have any idea what he’d _done_? But Malcolm pressed the card into his hand anyway, and clapped him lightly on the shoulder, and said, “You’re not alone, okay?”

“Okay,” Luther answered, on reflex. 

That was so difficult to believe. 

“Is there anybody I can call for you?” Malcolm asked, and Luther thought about lying. His emergency contact was still listed as his dad back in Texas, but of course Dad wouldn’t answer any of this hospital’s calls. Diego didn’t deserve to get dragged into such a ridiculous, seething mess... but Luther found himself cracking apart, a little, and telling Malcolm his name, anyway. My roommate, my _actual friend_ , a guy I abandoned, a guy who hopefully sold my Xbox if he had to. And in what didn’t feel like nearly enough time to get emotionally ready for it, Diego was there. Allison, too. They brought a plastic bag full of books from Luther’s shelf, and Diego had grabbed some of Luther’s clothes, thinking he might be able to come home soon. Thinking he still had a home. That had never been in question, Diego said. Do you think I’d do that to you, man? No. No, screw that. No. 

Luther tried to remember all the speeches he’d written in his head, trying to explain what had happened, trying to apologize in a way that didn’t sound like a cop-out. He said, “I didn’t mean to do any of it. I promise. He... you couldn’t say _no_ to him —” and Allison cut him off with a gloved hand so, so light against his mouth. Her gloves were red, and for a second Luther thought about _bloody hands_ even though of course he didn’t mean to. For a second he thought Allison looked immeasurably _guilty_ , for some reason. Like there were words burning her tongue. 

“You can tell us whatever you need to about what happened,” Allison said, softly, voice shaking just a little. “But we know it wasn’t your fault. We believe you. I’ve seen — I mean I _know_ —”

What did Allison know? The social media reports coming in about Kilgrave from all over the world? Luther knew Allison had been divorced a few years back... she’d had a whole separate life, before coming to their mediocre apartment building to start again. Allison didn’t talk a lot about what her life had been like before, but Luther knew she had a daughter she missed more than breathing. Had she... he didn’t know. Met _someone like Kilgrave_ before? If she knew about Luther’s own strength, would it scare her? Had Malcolm told her anything about it? Maybe Jessica Jones herself?

Luther just nodded, in the moment. Echoed back, “You believe me?”

And Allison said, “Of course. Luther, of course,” in a voice that said so many things Luther couldn’t possibly guess at. She hesitated for a second, and then squeezed his hand with that snappy red glove. She took his hand in both of hers, and he smiled crookedly, exhaustedly before remembering how bad his smile probably looked. His mouth was a wound. Allison didn’t seem to mind. She smoothed his hair — it was longer, now, because Kilgrave hadn’t let him take the time to cut it — and sat by his bed until the hospital told her and Diego they had to leave. 

They’d been looking for him for weeks, Luther learned; Diego and Allison had put up signs, and talked to professionals, though they hadn’t thought to hire Alias Investigations thanks to the violent Yelp reviews. Jessica Jones did have some _unconventional_ methods. Um. Diego was kicking himself for that one, now. They’d be back the next day, he said. Don’t... don’t _go_ anywhere. 

Luther said he wouldn’t, and his voice was sore and self-conscious, dizzy with painkillers and full of questions. But... even so... his own, again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so initially I wanted to write this one as a sort of comparison of Allison and Kilgrave’s powers. I know that’s been done before — I googled to check just now, and yes, it has — but... still, it’s so interesting. They can both swallow somebody else up in their will; they can both control the people around them... but Allison is actively trying hard to be a good person/respect other people’s free will. She’s distancing herself from her powers, where Kilgrave uses a creepy fetus-potion thing to enhance his and all that. I originally thought this fic might be a battle between Allison and Kilgrave.... him representing all the things that scare her about her own abilities. The exact opposite of what she wants to become. But then.... operating in the world of Jessica Jones the show... I didn’t want to take the triumph of defeating Kilgrave away from Jessica herself. And I couldn’t possibly have Kilgrave defeat Allison!!!! And... and I really love writing about Luther.... so here we are. 
> 
> I try to hint at the original point of this, though... like when Luther talks about what sort of kindness and compassion a person would need to overcome the darker side of growing up with powers like these.... and Allison’s red gloves, her guilt. It’s a bit open-ended, so you can of course make of that what you will.
> 
> Thank you, again.


End file.
